


People Don't Change

by Lady_Juno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Fem!Watson - Freeform, One Night Stands, Sherlock Being Sherlock, girl!Watson, lady!Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Juno/pseuds/Lady_Juno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson knew before any of this started, knew for absolute sure that going to her sister's "bachelor party" was a really, really bad idea. Now, not only does she have a fresh set of images of Harri getting drunk again, but she has to figure out what to do with Sherlock and the mess they made in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning After

 The bed was a tangled mess of limbs and sheets. Joan couldn't force her tired, aching brain to process more than two facts. 1) She and Sherlock were in bed together. 2) She and Sherlock were both naked. She checked again. Yes. Naked. Her partner was still sound asleep, drooling onto the pillow. He really did look almost... normal. Joan forgot about the nasty headache and the awkward nakedness for a moment as she watched him. His face was relaxed, clear of all the tension, frustration, and manic energy that seemed to occupy his every waking moment. The high, sharp cheekbones gave way to smooth, hollow cheek, sharp jaw, down to the curve of his silky, pale neck. Several red love bites decorated his shoulders and collarbone- Joan blushed slightly. She'd been trying to make him react with those. 

 As always, she was surprised by the amount of lean muscle on his chest and arms, tapering down to a slender, strong waist, where the sheets were bunched and rumpled. Joan closed her eyes and rolled out of his bed. It was his bed, not hers. Interesting choice. She would have thought he would prefer to sully her bed and let her clean it up, rather than deal with it himself. Pounding, searing pain blinded her as she stood up, and the woman staggered toward the toilet, unsettled by her own weak stomach. 

 When he woke up, she was still in his toilet, though the door was open now and she was mostly dressed. Still lacking shoes or socks, but it would do. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him sitting up, observing the bed, and making faces at himself in the mirror on the door. 

 "Explain."

 "Explain what?"

 "This, Joan." He gestured at the bed indignantly, and Joan wished his voice were a little more slurred. He sounded like he wasn't suffering at all. The idiot.

 "Well, you did a strip-tease for me, passed out on the bed, then I took advantage of your unconscious body in as many ways as I could think of." She turned to frown at her flatmate. "What the hell do you _think_ happened, Sherlock?" The doctor was slightly surprised when he looked bemused rather than upset. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for him. 

 "Is that my shirt?" Nope. Not feeling sorry any more.

 "Yes." 

 "Go get your own clothes. You look like my mother." 

 Joan dropped the bottle of pain killer with a loud clatter. She'd known he was completely tactless, but she hadn't expected anything like that to come out of his mouth. In retrospect, she probably should have known better. Sherlock looked mortified, but she ignored him, striding angrily toward the door. 

 "Joan, I-"

 "Shove it, Holmes." Joan slammed the door on him and leaned against it, listening. It didn't sound like he was getting out of bed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A one-night stand that could change everything. Right. How naive could she get? Joan swallowed tears and bile and made her way toward her own room. Nothing would change. She'd been a fool for hoping it would.


	2. Mycroft

"And what is it _this_ time?" Joan was grumpy. Then again, this was nothing new. She was usually grumpy these days, and usually with Sherlock. In spite of all this, Sherlock had to admit that she was still the only partner that would tolerate him. 

  _It must be a sad commentary on one's genius when the only person that will tolerate you is also holding a massive grudge._  That was precisely what she was doing, too. He'd already apologized for the comment, tried to explain that he hadn't been thinking very clearly- but she didn't want to hear it. So he let it drop. It had been three weeks, and she still hadn't forgiven him. She had also refused to make him tea in the afternoons. 

 "I can't say I'm intimately acquainted with my brother's daily agenda." 

 "And why are we going to him? You hate seeing your brother."

 "He said he had a case for us." 

 "Oh, like that's ever made a difference to you. The last time he had a case for us, he was in our flat, practically begging you to take it, and you turned him down like week-old sushi." 

 "Moaning won't help anything. Find a more productive use of your breath, or shut up." He had great respect for Joan Watson, really he did, but she was getting on his nerves, because she was being just as stupid as the rest of the world. What was the point in having a partner if they were as stupid as-

 "Ah. Little Brother." 

 "Don't call me that, Mycroft. It's unflattering to your intellect." Sherlock sighed and pulled his coat a little tighter around his shoulders. "So what have your lackeys fouled up for you this time, hm? What phenomenal bumbling do I need to fix for you?" When Mycroft didn't answer immediately, Sherlock glanced at him, and saw an expression he didn't want to. 

 "Oh, dear lord," Mycroft murmured, his gaze shifting between them and a look of repulsion on his face. "You didn't, Sherlock. I told you not to get attached. See what happens when you let emotions get in the way?"

 "I'm not attached!" Sherlock protested before he could think those words through. "And I haven't let emotions get in the way of anything. Now, what's the case?" Mycroft wasn't so easily dissuaded. 

 "Of all the women you could have chosen. Really?"

 "And what's wrong with me?" Joan was bristling, teeth bared. Mycroft spared only the briefest of glances for her.

 "Sherlock, you should have known better."

 "I was drunk. You can hardly hold me accountable-"

 "You were drunk?"

 "Oh, and I suppose that means it counts for nothing!" Joan was snarling at both of them now.

 "Why were you drunk?" And Mycroft was ignoring her.

 "Because it's apparently customary on 'stag nights' to do so. Not that you would know that, Mycroft." Sherlock's lofty tone, as though this experience had gifted him with enlightenment, didn't improve either Mycroft's, or Joan's tempers.

 "You're just afraid I'll tell Mummy."

 "Go ahead."

 Mycroft would have replied, if a very hard, female fist hadn't collided with his stomach at that moment. The older Holmes doubled over, trying to breathe, and Joan scowled down at him.

 "You deserved that." Sherlock couldn't help smirking slightly. His smirk lasted only as long as it took Joan's fist to travel the distance from her side to his face. As the woman stomped off and slammed the door behind her, Mycroft straightened with some difficulty. 

 "The file," he said, trying not to wheeze, "is on my desk. And for God's sake, Sherlock, get her tested."

 "For what, rabies?" Sherlock massaged his jaw, picking up the file and looking after Joan with a slightly hurt expression. "I assure you, Mycroft, whatever she has, it's not conta-"

 "A _pregnancy_ _test_ , you idiot."

 Sherlock paused, processing. Then, without another word, he turned to follow Joan. When she hit him, it wasn't usually that unsettling.


End file.
